


hey

by frogguacamole (orphan_account)



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-08 10:19:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15928397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/frogguacamole
Summary: He gets into fights.The guy with the suave hair that slicks back and falls against his freckled cheeks in blazing auburn curls which he tries so desperately to conceal under a colorful arrangement of backwards caps. The guy who no one really takes notice of at the back of the classroom, with gray Keds leaving inconspicuous streaks of dirt every time he swings his legs onto his desk. The guy who sprints out the front door with a buoyant grin at the sound of the final bell, in utter contrast to the troubled amber eyes that haunt his scowling face during the rest of the day he spends refusing to copy down notes.The one who Race finds being pinned against the burning red brick of a Walgreens, chords in his neck bulging as his limbs snap and flail in fruitless efforts to break free from his aggressor’s iron grip.





	hey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is my first time posting a fic and i gotta admit im a pretty slow writer so this took me a long while but you know. enjoy how short this chapter is  
> also i might be editing this from time to time because that ending gave me the flu

He gets into fights.

The guy with the suave hair that slicks back and falls against his freckled cheeks in blazing auburn curls which he tries so desperately to conceal under a colorful arrangement of backwards caps. The guy who no one really takes notice of at the back of the classroom, with gray Keds leaving inconspicuous streaks of dirt every time he swings his legs onto his desk. The guy who sprints out the front door with a buoyant grin at the sound of the final bell, in utter contrast to the troubled amber eyes that haunt his scowling face during the rest of the day he spends refusing to copy down notes.

The one who Race finds being pinned against the burning red brick of a Walgreens, chords in his neck bulging as his limbs snap and flail in fruitless efforts to break free from his aggressor’s iron grip. A ring of indigo blossoms around his right eye to match the blood gushing out flared nostrils. His scarlet hair sticks obnoxiously to his forehead. All Race does is stare blindly with the sun flashing gold in his face, the plastic bag carrying his weekly Marlboros hanging loose between his fingers. That is, until a loud cry knocks him stumbling out of his stupor, batting swollen beads of sweat out of blue eyes. He jiggles the bag free from his hand; it slides off his fingers and crumples onto the dripping hot concrete in a mess of flimsy white plastic. He really shouldn’t be doing this. His instincts are being pulled around in a ruthless game of tug-o-war, unsure whether to escape this inner turmoil, or to face it.

Jagged bits of gravel crunch and grind beneath white sneakers as they fly across the pavement. Race strikes out an arm, landing a punch against the man’s jaw. Then- in a blur so fast he doesn’t even have time to register it- the man whacks him against the head with a vicious crack of his knuckles, knocking him to the ground. Race’s eyes rock in their sockets, body swaying over hunched elbows, palms scratched raw from sharp pebbles. There’s a violent ring in his ears that drowns out the rest of the world, head throbbing in time with his speeding heart. Fortunately that gives the bloody redhead enough time to recover and he slips out from underneath the man's grasp and pounds him hard on the side of his jaw, sending him wobbling backwards in spirals. Race pushes his weight off his arms and rolls onto his ass, watching uselessly while all this plays out, watching as someone he knew as just a nobody from school land ruthless punches across a man's face.

The kid with red hair plants a foot behind him, catching the man by the collar of his shirt. He lets go, and the man thumps onto the concrete, scrambling like a bug knocked over on its back in attempt to get up. He manages to do so after a generous amount of time, glowing bright pink in the face. 

"Fucking kids," he sniffs bitterly, rubbing at the bloody marks on his face with grimy sleeves. "Always pickin' fights they can't win."

The two teens stare after him. He disappears behind a building. 

With a drained sigh, the redhead wraps his fingers around Race’s arm and tugs him to his feet, pulling the two of them into the nearest alleyway, flanked by a shabby looking McDonald’s and a crumbling apartment complex. Race crinkles his nose distastefully at the stench of garbage, watching with careful eyes as the other boy releases his grip on Race’s arm and sinks down to the ground with his back to the brick wall. 

There’s a prolonged silence before either of them can speak a single word.

“You alright?” Race picks boldly at the surface of the ice, fiddling with the hem of his sweater  with one hand and extending the other to help him back up.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m good. Thanks, I guess,” he rolls his shoulders in a halfhearted shrug, cautiously peering at Race’s outstretched palm before ignoring it. Race shoves his hand into his back pocket with a scoff.

“You guess? So, what, are we gonna act like I didn’t just save your life? Who was that, anyway?” 

His eyes drill smoking holes into the concrete, mouth slanted. “I coulda got him off myself.” 

Race stares down at him with a pointed look, unsure whether to be annoyed or amused by his snappiness. “Oh, and I guess you were just screaming bloody murder for nothing, then." This earns a harsh huff from the other boy. "Hey, listen, man. Stop tryna act so tough. I'm not an- I'm not  _ that _ much of an idiot. I can tell if someone needs help or not." 

He looks up with his eyebrows woven together, a frown painting his swollen lips. “Okay.”

Race hauls in a breath. “You got a name?"

“Maybe." 

“Jesus christ, you’re a pain to talk to," sliding down beside him, Race places a weary hand on the redheads shoulder. He flinches, and Race snatches it back awkwardly. The distance between them becomes significantly larger. 

“It's just 'cus you’re a pain to listen to."

“Okay,” Race shakes his head, lips quirking into a defeated smile. “Fair point.”

His scowl softens a bit at that, smoothing back sunset colored hair to give way to pensive brown eyes, one of which is nearly sewn shut by an appalling purple moon. A shiver runs down Race’s spine as his eyes pass over the many wounds decorating the other's face, a myriad of tiny goosebumps peppering his arms. He begs his mind to stop dreading about his reflection in the mirror.

“It's Albert.”

“Hm?”

“You… you asked if I had a name? It’s Albert. My name is... Albert," he repeats uncertainly, drumming his fingers on his knees. 

The blond can't help but crack a complacent grin, fixing Albert with content blue eyes. "Good to know, Albert. I'm Racetrack. Well, Race. Race for short.” 

"Oh, uh, I know. You're in most of my classes, I think," Albert tips his head to the side, rubbing the heels of his shoes against each other. Race winces. At the sight of Race's reaction, he stifles a smirk with the crease of his arm. "You're good, man. I don't... leave much of a presence anywhere I go, really." His eyes make a beeline for the ground, and the friendly atmosphere is gone. 

"Jesus, sorry. I didn't-"

"I said you're good." 

Race's lips flap on wordlessly. He pinches it shut. Swallows. 

"Hey. I should get home, yeah?" 

Albert nods, staring with a blank expression at the brick wall adjacent to them. "Yeah." 


End file.
